


Waterfalls

by everybody_koiya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, Fix-It, John being aware of things for once, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock's Violin, Sherlock's scars, mutual nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybody_koiya/pseuds/everybody_koiya
Summary: After all, it's never the fall that kills you. To land is terrible agony and suffering, endless pain and trauma. But if you're lucky, you're given somebody to pull you up from the ground, and make you forget just why you were down.





	1. Real or Not Real?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a part of my previous work, Up Close and Personal, but I decided they'd deserve their own story. Enjoy~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things you never quite forget. Good or bad, they're burnt into the back of your mind for good. Oh, the stories John Watson could tell. He remembers vividly. He sees it every night.

That day was oddly cold for June, the skies above gray as John got out of the cab. Sherlock had experimental business to do at Bart's, and the doctor decided to tag along. Even watching his madman flatmate whip a corpse would've been more amusing than the crap that was bound to be on the telly that day.

Yet there was no riding crop this time. As the consulting detective was preoccupied with a microscope and whatever it was he was examining, Molly treated John to coffee. He found it odd, since the woman never particularly sought his company. Her smile a little weak and tired, stories about cats and decaying corpses not very amusing. But he listened regardless. With all the cold ignorance she had received from Sherlock, at least someone had to listen to the poor thing. It was definitely worth it for at least the coffee, she'd got better at making it.

Halfway through a discussion about last night's episode of the X Factor, a head full of unruly, dark curls popped up from the doorway.

"You  _machine_!" He intended to greet him cheerfully, but the two words left his lips faster than he could register them. The sneer echoed in the laboratory, making John shiver. And yet, Sherlock gave him a half-smile. Molly didn't bat an eye. As if nobody heard what he actually said.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." the consulting detective responded, his cold words delivered in an unusual, warm tone, followed by an outwards nod. The pathologist was all smiles, and thanked John for the conversation. Saying goodbye?  _There's nothing I could possibly say to this_ , he thought, yet the words flowed naturally.

"No.  _Friends_  protect people." he got up from his seat, and followed his flatmate outside. As usual, he didn't know where or why they were going, no one ever knows with him. Was the nod the invitation? John shrugged. That was, by far, not the strangest thing to have happened to him.

Before getting in the cab, he glanced at Bart's one last time, eyes immediately wandering to the roof. A tall and dark figure, with their trenchcoat blown by the wind, was standing on the ledge, hand held up to their ear. The doctor's stomach sunk, as the memory struck his mind like lightning. The conversation at the lab just now... the last one they ever had. The figure standing on the roof... Sherlock...

He threw his phone aside, and stepped off the ledge. Sherlock Holmes was falling, falling to his demise yet again, and there's not enough time to react, nothing to do, John failed again, failed to keep him alive, keep him by his side, Sherlock is dead, and-

"John? Are you coming?" No. Sherlock was very much alive, and looking at him from the cab, with an impatient look on his face. John sighed with relief, and got in after him. 

The dinner was pleasant, and the doctor was pretty sure that was the first time he'd seen Sherlock eat that week. Even if the only thing he ate was a breadstick, and even that was the result of five minutes of begging. Angelo went through the usual trouble of lighting them a candle, but, unlike last time, the conversation went well. No awkward questions about sexuality, or murder cases to uncover. Every time he went out with somebody, be that a potential girlfriend, Mike Stamford, or just some other friend, he felt bored of sitting at a table, eating, and having a plain, uninteresting conversation. But not that night. For that night, John Watson, for the first time in his life, didn't want a dinner to end.

Baker Street, another blog post in the typing. Sherlock's loud and aggressive tapping on his phone didn't exactly help.  _Must be someone from Scotland Yard_ , he guessed, glancing at him. When he argued with Mycroft, they settled with simple but thorough insults in order to talk as little as humanly possible. John shook his head with a smirk at the thought, and turned back to his screen, now signalling the low battery percentage. And of course, the charger was all the way across the room, laying at the detective's feet. 

"SHERLOCK!" he called out, his desperate cry ringing in his ears. Once again, not what he intended. He wanted to call his name much quieter and softer, why did he scream? He shivered again. Of course. That, too, was from that day, wasn't it?  _Stupid John, what an idiot you are._ That day was merely a fragment of his imagination. His Sherlock Holmes was very much alive, regarding him with a curious look as if he hadn't just been screamed at. And he had physical proof as well. He just tossed him his charger.

He started yawning more and more often. John saved his draft, waving it off mentally with an 'I'll finish it tomorrow' and stood up from his chair. He turned, but didn't expect a box to be right at his feet as he tried to step, even less tripping in it. But instead of the hard floorboards, he felt something soft beneath him as he landed. A mattress. A bed. A real miracle.

He closed his eyes. As he let himself sink into the mattress, head throbbing, its smell he couldn't feel up until that point all came to him. Most prominently, metal, strong and everywhere around him, joined by smoke. Somewhere in that thick cloud, he could've sworn he felt the scent a familiar aftershave. Very faint, nearly lost in everything else, but there it was. Almost like a beacon of hope. 

The doctor opened his eyes when he felt something wet sticking to his fingers. The explanation to the metallic smell. Blood. Fresh and dark red, pooling on the mattress beneath. Was he bleeding now?  _What in the name of fuck is happening today?_  As he glanced to the side, he spotted a body lying next to him, worryingly still.  _Sherlock._  His bed, his room, his aftershave. Yes, he surely must've known what happened. There had to be an explanation. John propped himself up on one elbow, and took a closer look at his friend. 

Right there and then would have been the appropriate moment to scream, but no sound left John's lips. He swore he forgot how to breathe when he cast eyes on him, the heart beating in his throat shattering to pieces. The consulting detective's icy eyes stared back at him wide open, devoid of any life, any soul in them. And the blood continued on oozing from the crack on his skull. 

Dr. John Watson woke up drenched in cold sweat. It felt like somebody was standing on his chest, slowly crushing his lungs. His stomach in a tight knot, he was gasping for air, and trying to forget all he saw. But there was no forgetting the events of that afternoon. Sherlock's lifeless corpse appeared every time he closed his eyes, the body that was once him, the extraordinary man he loved despite all the pain he caused him. He broke out in loud, ugly sobs, not caring if Mrs. Hudson heard or not. Dreams might not have been real, but corpses were. Tombstones and funerals were. 

_He's not here anymore, John. Love him all you want, John, he's gone. Gone forever. And he'll never know. You never told him, John. You called him a machine instead. Live with what you've done, John. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Buried. And believing in him won't bring him back._


	2. It's Always You (pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days before beginning his mission that may cost him his life, Sherlock Holmes comes to a decision that changes everything. Could he really do this to John Watson?
> 
> a.k.a. Sherlock and John fucking sit down and talk instead of repressing everything and waiting for the other to read his mind and understand.

"Brother dear..." Mycroft greeted him after two rings.  _He's aging..._  "what a surprise."

"There's been a slight change of plans, Mycroft." The younger got to the point immediately. He had a lot of time to think in the dark cellar he hid in. He knew exactly how he wanted things to go as long as he could still control them. 

"Oh?"  _Doubt._

"I want to visit Baker Street tomorrow. Come with me." Baker Street... he never thought he'd miss it so much, and it had only been a week since he 'died'. Agreeably, everything would've been better than his damp, ominous and quite lonesome shelter, but nothing quite as good as home. He missed Mrs. Hudson caring for him like his mother would. Missed the tea he found on his bedside table every single morning, the skull and the stabbed papers on the mantelpiece, the smiling face and the bullet holes on the wall. And John Watson. Lord, how he missed John Watson.

"A brief excursion to the good doctor?" Mycroft asked immediately, making his brother's heart clench. "Didn't you say you were keeping your survival a secret from him?"

"I reconsidered." he said grimly. "I know him better than anyone, I know what kind of man he is. Grieving for however long I'll be away would certainly damage him, if not... worse."

A brief, but telling sigh sounded at the other end of the line. "You went to the cemetery when I told you not to go, didn't you?" 

"You should have known I rarely do as you say." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He spoke to me, Mycroft. He's not a born poet, you just have to read his blog to know that, but he's sincere. He might just be the only person who believes me. It might do him better if he never knows I'm alive, and there's always the risk of him letting the cat out of the bag, but I can't do it." That was the first time he'd actually admitted all that to himself, let alone to somebody else. Caring is not an advantage, his brother's words echoed in his brain. But no matter how much he wanted otherwise, he couldn't not care about  _him_.

"Sherlock, that's all very beautiful. And quite frankly, a bit nauseating. But you do remember why you are leaving, don't you?" It would have been hard not to. That was all he could think about, the one chance he got to stop Moriarty forever, before he ruins more lives. His own crumbling to pieces was more than enough.

"I made up my mind. Will you come or not?" he asked. The call was getting too long.

"Ever impulsive." Mycroft said with what seemed like a faint chuckle in his voice. "I'll tag along before your dear doctor, or your landlady thinks they're seeing a ghost."

                                        * * * * *

Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, was initially frightened, but not very surprised. She even managed to pull Mycroft into her embrace. Sherlock, trying not to laugh at his brother's confused expression, glanced up at the door at the end of the stairway. Their door.  _Will John welcome me just as warmly?_

He hid behind the door as Mycroft entered their living room. Not even half a minute later, he heard John's voice from inside, loud and pissed off.

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft! Can't you knock?" He sounded so tired, voice hoarse from probably not speaking much those past days. "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Good morning, Doctor Watson" came the dangerously calm reply. 

"It's anything but, really." At least he hadn't lost his sense if humour. "I asked you a question. What are you doing here?"  _Angry. Impatient._

"Visiting." The elder Holmes replied as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. "I wanted to see how you are doing these days."

"One would think you just had to look at a computer screen for that. You know, since you have our- ...the flat under surveillance."  _Our flat._  Sherlock's eyes widened as he listened on. He still considered the flat as theirs. Even when he corrected himself, he didn't claim it as his. 221B Baker Street was theirs, and would always be.

The detective got lost in thought, memories of cases past clouding his mind and his attention wandered away from the conversation. Next thing he knew, John was starting to have enough of Mycroft. "What, the dead man walking? That's the single most distasteful joke you could make, really." Joke? Mycroft Holmes joking? Sherlock wondered for a second if he really had died and all that happened was a vision.

"How many jokes have I made since you know me?"

"I will never understand the two of you. Your brother's only been buried for a couple of days, yes, it's perfectly fine if you don't deal with it well!"  _He'd tap dance on my grave if he could, John, don't be ridiculous._ "But theological references are rather odd, even from you." The mention of theology caught him off-guard. The dead man walking. The Lazarus plan. Mycroft was talking about  _him._

"Lazarus returned from the dead as his journey wasn't done in this world yet. He served a purpose. For his family and close friends, his return must have been a miracle." Softening the blow with metaphors was not something his brother would've normally done. Oh, no. He was testing John to see how long it took him to catch on. Clever.

"Yes, sure. And? Why should I care?!" If he wasn't fed up until that point, he surely got there by then. 

Mycroft inhaled sharply. "It doesn't quite take a genius' intellect to understand what I'm trying to tell you, now, does it, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock stood up from where he was crouching, and took a very careful peek at the two men. Shivers ran down his spine when he saw John. The older man was facing his way, almost directly, but didn't notice him. Not that he expected him to, he never noticed anything.

"For your information, I understand you, but this is bullshit!"  _Fatigued, has had traumatic nightmares, the tremor has returned, hasn't eaten a full meal in at least a week, on the verge of crying._  John's whole state spoke 'handle with care'. And thinking it through for the first time since he decided to see him, the 'dead man walking' was scared of giving him a heart attack upon entering. "Sherlock Holmes won't walk through that sodding door if I say 'Lazarus, come forth!'  _He's dead!_ " It was now or never. The detective gathered some courage, took a deep breath, and stepped out from his hiding place. He knew exactly what to say.

"Unless someone asks me for one last miracle." he hinted at John's speech, the kindest smile he could muster on his face.

Silence hung thick and suffocating in the room, as John scanned his flatmate's face over and over again in disbelief. The exact same facial expression as after the fall, when he was by his side and clutching his wrist, checking for a pulse, desperately searching for any sign of life. The same, shocked and devastated face looked at him now, only with a bit more stubble than back then. Goodness, ever the handsome man, even when traumatised.  _Focus, Sherlock._

"Sherlock... but..." If anyone came in at that moment, and saw how pale the doctor was, they'd have thought John was the one who just returned from the dead. "Do you see him too?" he asked, letting out a shaky sigh, and turned to the elder Holmes brother for confirmation.

"Sometimes logical thinking does wonders. You should try it. Maybe then you'd understand painfully simple metaphors." he said, crossing his arms.

John faced him again, and Sherlock felt like it was time to say something. "I guess my word isn't worth all that much right now, but I was alive last time I checked." If looks could kill, he wouldn't have been, not with that glare his blogger shot him.

"I stood right there." he began walking forward, towards him, fists clenched. "I saw you jump! You had no pulse!" he yelled, now standing face-to-face with him. Yet, even if he was sure he was getting punched, Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from John Watson. He only had that day and maybe the next morning with him, then there was no guarantee they would ever see each other again. He didn't let a single moment go to waste. "I stood at your bloody grave, Sherlock Holmes, what have you got to say for yourself?!" The doctor grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, way too close. His last yell came out as an angry, trembling whisper.

 _Get yourself together, Sherlock._  "I heard you." he said softly, for only John to hear. The doctor's hold softened slightly at that. "I guess an apology won't be enough to excuse all this. But I will tell you everything you need to know." he swore, averting his gaze to the floor as he spoke, but looking back up shortly after.

Why wasn't he saying anything? Why was he still silent? The thoughts in the younger Holmes' mind were racing one another. John could really drive him insane with those dramatic pauses of his. The older man was holding back tears as he stared at him, that much was obvious from how frequently he blinked. He was probably as deep in thought as Sherlock himself, and held all of it in. Why couldn't he just fucking talk sometimes?

"Perhaps coming here wasn't a good idea after all..." he muttered, defeated. "John, I'm so-" he couldn't finish that apology. The army doctor let go of his lapels, throwing his arms around Sherlock's neck and hugging him close instead. The detective stood for a second and hesitated. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected, but the one he didn't dare hope for. 

John held him tight, muttering through his tears about how much he hated him, and how he was a bloody bastard. And Sherlock let him. He rubbed circles into his back, not really knowing what else to do, or how to comfort him. Nobody ever came to him for comfort. But that, there and then, felt right. John Watson in his arms felt right, more than anything ever.

Sherlock glanced up briefly, his eyes meeting Mycroft's, who was just about to leave. He mouthed him a reluctant 'Thank you.', receiving only a surprised smirk in return. His brother nodded, and walked outside.

                                        * * * * *

John, head resting in his palm, laughed, still not believing what he heard. "So he shot himself? Just like that?"

"Right in the head." Sherlock responded. "Luckily Mycroft and I had a plan for this scenario. But I told you about that already." he leaned back in his armchair. "And I'd rather do stunts than get shot, believe me." The detective generously left the part where Moriarty threatened all his loved ones out. His return was shocking enough news for one day, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Why am I not surprised you two had multiple plans? Or that you screwed me over?" he grinned painfully.

"It's not like you made it very hard."

"Oh, shut up!" John laughed, rolling his eyes. "Is it over now? I mean, this whole Moriarty-fiasco."

"God, I wish it was. The cat might be dead, but that means the mice are still running free, John. He has an entire, spiderweb-like network still active, and it's only a matter of time before somebody takes over. It has to be dismantled. And that's exactly what I'm about to do." he explained his situation carefully, secretly hoping for some praise like the words he always got.

John took a few seconds to process the information. "Cause there aren't enough men in the British Secret Services to take care of this, huh?" he tilted his head to the side.

"Not one of them knows his methods as I do." he answered painfully. "I only wish I had more than a day to be here."  _With you_ , he nearly added.

Silence fell on the two of them once again. John was lost in his thoughts, gripping the armchair and staring at his feet, looking up at Sherlock every once in a while, who couldn't help but wonder: what did the older man see in his nightmares? Afghanistan? The fall? Why did he let Sherlock speak all afternoon without a word? What was John Watson keeping from him? Probably nothing as dramatic or sentimental as Sherlock's own secrets.

The doctor was staring at him again, with a confident and brave look fitting for a soldier. "I'm going with you, then." Sherlock was pretty sure his heart just skipped a beat there.

"Out of the question." he replied instantly.

"Please! God forbid I want to steal your limelight, but you can't do everything alone! Mycroft can only do so much for you from his office. This mission might cost you your life, let me help!"  _Loyal. Self-sacrificing. Stupidly so._

"It might cost  _you_  your life if you come with me. That's a risk I'm not taking." Because of him, John's life had already been at stake twice. He couldn't bear seeing him hurt or dead.

"Then what? Should I just sit here, watch telly and wait for you?" Just when he thought he had calmed down...

"John, when will you understand? This is not some adventure we can share, for you to later whip out a mediocre, watered-down blog post about, that would eventually get heavily censored by the government!" His writing wasn't mediocre. A bit too romanticised and still unpolished, but if he was being honest, Sherlock enjoyed it. Enjoyed the way he looked in John's eyes. He was not a hero, at least he didn't think himself as such, but reading the way he appeared in the posts, he felt like one for a brief minute. His doctor put him on the highest of pedestals, and Sherlock would've been lying if he said he didn't enjoy it completely. But then, like so many things, he also had to lie about the quality of the posts. He needed to convince John to stay, there had to be a way. And if that was the way, then so be it.

"Well, this is charming, I've really missed this!" he was nearly shouting as he stood up from his armchair. "The ice cold, solitary detective was a nice act, people and the press loved it, but can we go back to Sherlock Holmes, human being for a second here?! You can't do everything alone! For fuck's sake, Sherlock, I..." he stopped, left hand clenched in a fist to stop it from shaking. After taking a deep breath, and gathering his thoughts, he continued. "Give me a valid reason. Tell me why. Say the word, one word, and you know I'll stay. Just tell me why you don't let me help with this."

"What do you want me to say?" the detective sprung to his feet to face him. "If I let you come, it's inevitable you suffer, and there's a good chance you won't make it. I'd have to watch you die, and then the whole past week, me jumping off a bloody roof and you grieving would be worthless!" he explained with increasing volume, taking small steps even closer to his flatmate.

"What's the jump got to do with anything?" The question was the last straw. He had to tell him, there was no other choice. He practically already did anyway.

"I lied to you!" he shouted, uttering John surprised and speechless. "Just now. The snipers... they weren't aiming at me. He'd played that card before. Moriarty had a different fate in store for me. There were three of those men, each targeting someone I care about. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and  _you._ " The doctor went deathly pale for the second time that day. Understandable. His life was at stake the whole time and he didn't even notice it. "It was either you, or me. And I figured my loss would hurt you less, than yours would hurt me. I'm sorry." he admitted.

John was silent. Silent and staring at him with widened eyes. It was either shouting or tears, any minute. Mentally, Sherlock was already packing his bags. In the morning he'd take everything. Even if he survived, who in their right mind would've await him when he returned? Not John Watson. Not after all of this. But there was still a tiny bit of hope. There always was. So the detective held on to it, and broke the silence.

"I didn't want to come back at first. I didn't want you or Mrs. Hudson accidentally giving away that I'm still alive. But as I hid in the dark, in an abandoned cellar, I thought about what you've endured before. War, injury... That's when realised you don't deserve to be put through tragic loss more than you already have been." Sherlock's stomach sunk as he spoke, eventually not even daring to look at the man sitting in front of him. The man who saved him. The man he loved. The man he lied to and hurt, more than he could say. 

Sherlock felt his eyes welling up. Why? Why now? He needed to face what he had done with pride, apologise and leave. Emotions, * _sentiment_ *, was not part of the plan in the slightest. People like him don't deserve to love people like John. And yet, here he was. Longing so stupidly after a man who would never look at him the same if he told him. Running after a train that wouldn't wait for him.

He lifted his gaze again, taking a deep breath, and continued. "What I did to you, what I got you into was unfair. I was in your debt. You believed in me, always, despite everything, despite me never deserving it. This was the best way I could've repayed all I owe to you." he explained, to get it all off his chest. John listened, taking a seat yet again. He looked tired, way too tired, and all Sherlock wanted was to ease his pain, but had no idea how. "I swear I will contact you as often as it is in my power, but please, John. Stay in Baker Street, and keep my 'resurrection' a secret. Would you do that for me?" 

Dr. Watson opened his mouth to answer, but no sound seemed to be coming out of it. The anger from earlier was all gone now, or at least, his flatmate dared to hope. The brave army doctor had fallen in a battle far too large for him to fight. He hid his face behind his hands, sighing. "Yes." he answered, his voice shaking as he spoke. Sherlock walked closer to him, carefully laying a hand on his shoulder.

He nearly broke down crying himself when his doctor lifted his welled-up, bloodshot eyes at him.  _I did that_ , Sherlock couldn't help but think, as he followed the teardrop running down the older man's cheek with his gaze. John's eyes were the most beautiful when they shone as he laughed, laugh lines showing up in their corners. How he looked at him from behind his hands had no traces of that. And it was all his fault. "Did I say something wrong?"

John smiled at him for a split second, ever bitter and faint, but still there. "No. You didn't." He lifted his left hand from the armrest, it still trembling as it touched Sherlock's own. Despite everything, his touch was warm as ever. A breath of life against the detective's cold skin. John's eyes were fixed at the rug below their feet again for quite some time, before he cleared his throat again. "Excuse me" he said, and stood up from his chair, heading out of the living room and towards his own, away from Sherlock. 

The detective pondered going after him, and telling him everything was going to be alright, but decided against it. That was not what John needed to hear. Leaving him alone to disclose his unspoken feelings to himself was the most he could do for him, even if it hurt. He couldn't always save John Watson, after all. John needed to save himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here's where we're picking up from next time.
> 
> Sherlock's emotional side is a joy to work with, you guys. Sorry for any pain I might have caused, or will cause with the next two chapters.


	3. It's Always You (pt. 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you say goodbye when all you want is to stay? How do you stay strong when your heart is shattering into pieces? And how do you vow to survive when the road you're about to set foot on is paved with certain death at any second? Sherlock Holmes is still looking for answers. But is he ever going to find them?

That night, in the dim light provided by the fireplace, Sherlock Holmes played his own requiem. When the thoughts, of John, of Moriarty, of his brother, and of the mission became suffocating, he took his dear violin in his hands again, laying a few blank sheets of paper on the music stand, and began playing something new. The calmer, soft melody in the forming did wonders. He used it as his own metaphorical shock blanket, easing him into a fragile peace of mind. Soon there was nothing but him, his instrument, and the diligent scribbling of notes. 

Hours passed like that. He kept on writing and re-writing, crumbling paper, discarding it and restarting from the very beginning, sneering harsh insults at the paper balls. It felt like the first time he ever composed. With a smirk, he remembered how he worked an entire week on that piece, and how proud he was of it when he finished. For about five minutes, before Mycroft called it tedious. 

He glanced out of the window. Judging from the position of the moon, it must've been around midnight. He was ready. _Finally_. He drew the ending bars in their place, and played through the entire song one last time. 'Reichenbach Requiem', he ended up titling it. As cliché as a title could be, but to be fair, he was never particularly good with them. That's John's job, he's the writer.

 _John_. As soon as he made his reappearance in Sherlock's thoughts, a hand squeezed his shoulder ever-so-gently. And when he turned, there he was, in a condition much better than that of earlier.

"I prefer the original ending, but you are the composer. It's still beautiful though." he smiled, contagiously bringing one to Sherlock's lips as well.

"How long have you been listening?" he asked, trying to read his flatmate's face.

John glanced at his watch. "About an hour, I think. It's impossible to sleep when Sherlock Mozart Holmes is working away downstairs." He really was much better. Sherlock smirked at the comparison, setting his violin down into his armchair. "Go to sleep. You'll need every bit of alertness tomorrow."

The detective rolled his eyes. "I'm alert even if I don't sleep. Sleeping is boring anyway, it's only you lot who find no other way to escape your problems who do it regularly. Besides, what good can seven hours do?" John gave him that puzzled, mate-you-really-are-an-alien look again.

"Sherlock. Please, for God's sake, take care of your needs for once in your life." he asked, voice tired and somewhat pleading. But he didn't understand. Seven hours. That's all he had left of Baker Street, of John, maybe forever. He had to savour every single second. He couldn't sleep knowing he might never return, and he wasted his time.

"Watch telly with me?" Sherlock asked in a last desperate attempt to keep John with him and hopefully avoid dozing off.

The doctor didn't seem particularly pleased with the request. "You dick." he muttered, taking a seat on the couch. "But I choose the channel. You, shut up and don't spoil the ending." Sherlock sat next to him with a victorious smirk. He had never looked forward to cheap nighttime television so much.

                                        * * * * *

"Sherlock..." he heard someone say from far away, accompanied by a yawn. The person, undeniably a male, successfully woke him, but not for long before his eyelids forced themselves shut again. The detective whined, making a similar sound to a dragged 'no', and cuddled back into his pillow. "Sherlock, you git. It's morning. Wake up." _Morning._  Sherlock's eyes popped open at the word. The living room really was illuminated by the first rays of the morning sun. _C'est le jour, Sherlock,_  his brain warned him. His final moments. 

He sat up at an alarming velocity, finding himself next to his flatmate, lying on his back, hair disheveled and grinning at him.  _What happened last night again?_ he found himself asking. 

"Calm down. You still have an hour before Mycroft arrives." John told him casually.

"How do you know when he arrives?  _I_ don't know when he arrives!" Sherlock asked in a raspy voice, still not having woken up entirely.

"He called you a couple minutes ago. It woke me up, so I answered it while you were knocked out." The detective couldn't help but wonder how that conversation went. Now that he mentioned it, he might have heard his ringtone in his dream, but didn't recognise it. As he looked at John, the older man was still grinning at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, yawning himself as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"First of all, that bird's nest." he smiled. "I'm getting you hairties for Christmas. You look like a bloody scarecrow." 

"That's insulting towards my sense of fashion." The younger man rolled his eyes with an absent-minded smile. "Second of all?"

"The thing about sleeping being boring and unnecessary is bullshit. We weren't even halfway through the film and you were gone." he chuckled, bringing a faint tint to Sherlock's cheeks. He glanced into John's eyes, relieved see them shining from happiness instead of tears.  _I did this,_ he beamed mentally. But his blush was nothing compared to the one the next sentence brought to him. "You're very... clingy in your sleep, you know that?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, averting his gaze to the floor. 

"You stuck to me like glue. Which is... good, as I could still fit next to you lying down, but also... the last time I slept like this with another man was during my military days, when we had a 2-person sleeping place for the 5 of us. You're like them a lot. You hold rather strong. People couldn't tell if they looked at you." responded John, a smile still evident in his voice. So, what he cuddled into merely minutes ago... what he thought was a pillow was actually...

Sherlock sat there, blinking at the rug and blushing profusely (and not only because of his fantasies of John in a uniform), not knowing if he should be flattered or horrified. That was definitely not what he intended, not in the slightest. If he was awake, he wouldn't ever have dared to be that  _clingy_ , as John said. But also, he'd have been lying if he said he didn't enjoy it. He hadn't slept that well in what felt like ages. And John didn't mind it, didn't push him away or left him there alone. If anything, his behaviour spoke that not only did he not mind it, he... was fine with it. Comfortable with his annoying dick of a flatmate falling asleep on him. Sherlock smiled faintly. If nothing more serious ever happened, if he could never gather his courage to tell him about his stupid infatuation, he'd still have that night to treasure. Nobody could ever take that memory from him.

"You know," John intervened, crashing the detective's train of thought, "I'm actually glad I got to see this side of you before..." he trailed off, neither wanting to, nor knowing how to finish that sentence. And there it was. The bitter aftertaste of the sweet moment in Sherlock's mouth, that wiped the smile off his lips. "I just made this very awkward... again. Coffee?" the doctor sighed.

"Black, two sugars, thank you." The younger man responded, anxious thoughts spiraling into his brain, drowning the blissful ones. _Wake up, Sherlock, wake up. Welcome to your reality._ Then there was a whisper. A shy, little one in the corner of his mind, asking him something rather important. Was that really how he would spend his last morning in Baker Street? Cursing the world (and himself) for something he couldn't go back and change? The detective gave it a thought. No. No it wasn't. "Into battle it is." he muttered under his breath, and stood up to join his flatmate in the kitchen.

                                       * * * * *

"-and Mycroft will cover my half of the rent. He just doesn't know it yet." Sherlock explained with a sly smile, already envisioning his brother's face in the moment he tells him.

Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, didn't find it as funny as her tenant did. "Oh, bugger the rent, Sherlock! When will  _you_ come back?" she asked with her voice slightly raised, hands on her hips. She reminded him of his mother, standing like that. Mrs. Holmes took a similar position when scolding her children for misbehaviour.

The detective took his last sip of tea, and placed the cup back on the saucer. "I can't promise anything fixed." he said quietly, tapping his fingers on the table. "I'll be in touch with John, he'll keep you updated. And as much as I'd like to send you fridge magnets from every place I visit, I can't promise that, either." he smiled at her sadly, standing up to hug her goodbye.

"Take care, dear." she whispered into his coat. " _He_ will never say, but he'll miss you even more than I. Would you try to spare us from losing you again?" Sherlock felt himself near tearing up again, but at the same time, the landlady's words brought a smile to his face. _She's right. He really would never say it._

"I'll come home if that's the last thing I do." he swore. 

A knock sounded at the door, dissolving the magic and warmth of the moment. Sherlock stepped away and turned back, the doorframe soon revealing his older brother in a pinstripe suit. _It's time._

"Five minutes, Mycroft."

"It will hurt more, you know."

"I do. Five minutes. See you outside."

                                       * * * * *

"I've never been particularly good at this..." Sherlock muttered a little later, as the two of them were stood on the stairs leading up to their flat. He was a couple steps lower, to be able to look the older man in the eye.

"Yeah, I figured. Last time you flung yourself off the roof before I could say anything." John crossed his arms, making his flatmate grin with his comment. 

"Look, John, I don't think I could ever say anything quite like what you told me in the cemetary," he looked up at him shyly, "but I'll have you know that I've never had the luck to encounter anyone quite as brave, wise and kind as you. Anyone, who'd believe in me despite how much I've lied to and hurt them. Anyone, who'd mourn me if I died and missed me if I left. Anyone, who praised what I do instead of cursing it. You do your fair share of cursing as well, but to be honest, I don't blame you-" John didn't have the patience to wait for the end of it. He stepped down and pulled him close, burying his face into his shoulder. Being used to the situation by then, Sherlock didn't hesitate to return it. 

Long minutes passed like that, in silence, in the warmth of each other's embrace. But, as per usual, the cogs in the detective's head were still turning endlessly. He wanted to say the words, wanted to know the answer and finally settle everything that might hold him back and turn his mind away from the mission he was given. But what kind of bloody fool says goodbye with a love confession? Even he wasn't so dramatic. Plus he didn't want to raise questions that he might never get to answer. No, it was either in a moment better than the one they shared there, or never. _Never._ That word frightened and motivated him at the same time. In order for John to know, he had to come home to him, or he would've been as oblivious as he generally was about everything else. He probably still thought love was a mystery to Sherlock. And frankly, it was. But he'd had cases stranger than that mystery. He could cope.

Then a new scenario started budding in his brain. What if, _what if_ John found somebody while he was away? Somebody who could fulfill his adrenaline cravings, and be a better partner to him than Sherlock ever could? It was entirely possible, after all. God knows what kind of people run around in London. Then it would be over. There would be next to nothing for Sherlock to come home for. He had to tell him. No matter the drama, no matter the fear of rejection, better safe than extremely sorry later. 

He pulled away, and was about to start another shorter speech leading up to the three words he never thought he'd say, when John spoke before he could. "I've seen war before. Blood, death and suffering with every step. I don't wish for anyone to go through it. And here you are, willing to go and fight a bloody psychopath's bloody minions all around the world. You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock Holmes." he smiled, finally taking his gaze off his shoes and looking at him. His praise awoke some of those damn feelings of fondness in his chest, accelerating his heartbeat. God, how he hoped he didn't blush again. "I can't say anything new, it would be easier if you hadn't overheard me before, you bastard..." he muttered, making Sherlock laugh shortly. "Come back in one piece, will you? There are plenty of criminals here in London who are waiting for you to catch them. And... I'm here too. You better not forget me while you're away."  _How could I, John? Tell me, how could I possibly do that to you?_

"Roger that, Captain Watson." he raised his hand to his temple to salute him, with a short and bittersweet smile on his lips. That smile grew as he saw John chuckle at the sight of the gesture, only to return it soon after. "See you as soon as possible, John." he paid him one last, longing glance, before turning his back to him and walking down the stairs.

And the tears came, burning his eyes. He stopped before the door, not wanting to turn the knob and step outside. He promised five minutes to his brother and swore to help those in need and dismantle Moriarty's web, but none of that mattered. The clenching of his heart mattered, the pain surging through his body mattered, and the teardrops rolling down his face. Mycroft was right again, oh how he hated when he was. Goodbyes hurt like hell, that's exactly why he never said them. What could've made him, a brilliant and rational man into the sobbing mess he was at that moment? What changed him, what ruined him so much? He wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, trying to erase any trace of them.  _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock,_  he told himself as his shaking hands slowly opened the door. _Sentiment is a chemical defect found-_

"Sherlock!" And he closed it immediately, turning around sharply, now standing face-to-face with his doctor. He was oblivious, but definitely not stupid. He surely saw the remnants of tears in his eyes. It would've been so easy to break down, to hold him and cry into his shoulder, but the detective chose not to. He wanted John to see him strong to be able to let him go. But it didn't look like the man squeezing his shoulder was ever going to let that happen. 

John stood close, way too close, looking up at him with lips slightly parted. If it was anybody else, say, Molly Hooper, or Irene Adler, he would've used the word 'expectant' to describe them. But John Watson... no, he couldn't have possibly been waiting for anything but maybe an apology, or Sherlock saying he'd stay. No other possible options, as he didn't return the detective's unpredictable and unfortunately strong sentiments. Yet there he was. He licked his lips and waited. And the rest was instinct.

Sherlock couldn't believe he was leaning in. Ever cautiously, he came closer to John until he was practically standing on his toes, and leaned down a little. And his flatmate still didn't push him away. If anything, he, too, was reaching up, to meet him in the middle. _Unbelievable_. His heart was hammering in his throat as John's hands slid to his lapels, carefully tugging on them to pull him even lower. 

When they locked eyes again - to phrase it the way John most definitely would've -, Sherlock could've sworn sparks were flying, violently, swiftly, capable of catching fire at any given second. Chills ran down his spine as he felt his breath against his lips. He had to grab fistfuls of John's sweater to ground himself. It was happening. It really was.

And in the moment that would've made Sherlock's 'delusional fantasies' reality, his phone sounded with a loud text alert noise, breaking them apart. John looked at him like a deer in headlights, and the detective's gaze must've been something similar. How he hated Mycroft in that moment... but deep down somewhere, he was grateful. If they actually kissed, there was no guarantee one or both of them wouldn't regret it later. Sherlock for losing control over his actions, and John for letting him.

A very awkward silence sat on the two of them, which John ended up breaking by clearing his throat. His hands still lingering on Sherlock's lapels, he ended up tightening the younger man's scarf slightly, with a flustered smile on his face.

"There you go. All ready now. Go and do whatever it is you're supposed to do. And maybe get some milk on the way back." he barely dared to look into his eyes.

Sherlock's smile was everything but happy. "I will" he responded. There was clearly no more room for speeches, nor for confessions. They had both been said before. All that was left was the reluctant goodbye. The detective sighed, and extended his left hand towards John, who looked at it with a puzzled expression. "To the very best of times." he said.

"To those. To us." John shook his hand strongly, nearly taking Sherlock's attention away from the sadness in his eyes. "Goodbye, Sherlock." 

"Goodbye, John." And in both of those goodbyes, there was a little bit of  _stay with me_.

Sherlock kept staring at the front door of 221B until it could no longer be seen from the car window. Mycroft asked him question upon question but he ignored most of them, only grunting some kind of answer when necessary. He leaned back into the leather seat, and distracted himself from the boring journey and company with fantasizing as he watched trees and cars and people go by outside. Fantasizing of a future where he returns to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson welcomes him with tea and listens to all of his stories. Then John turns up soon after, looking awfully handsome, and pulls him into a kiss that sweeps him right off his feet.

As he was thinking John and kisses, he got reminded of the text surely sent by his brother. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and opened it right away.

"Kiss him goodbye (literally, if you wish), and get going, brother mine. We don't have time. MH."

Sherlock smiled to himself. _Not today, brother mine. Not yet, but surely, no, hopefully someday._ Yes, the time would come, but first, he needed to take care of something else. The stage was set, the curtain rose, and he was ready to meet him. Meet Death, who was impatiently waiting for him in his own Samarra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now, you must've figured out what the title "Waterfalls" symbolises. The tears of both the main characters and the readers. So sorry, guys, please stay with me for one more chapter~ m(_ _)m


	4. Forever Begins Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's broken. He's scarred. He's definitely not the same person who left. But he's here. He's his. And John Watson is never committing the mistake of letting him go ever again.
> 
> TW: Nightmares, description of scars

12-03-2014 9:08 AM

_These countries are so... peculiar. There are way less people than in London, and their languages sound more interesting as well. The architecture's pretty nice as well. You'd like it. Once my imminent retirement comes, I'm considering moving. Wanna come with?_

_I'll consider. Though I've grown fond of Mrs. H by now._

14-03-2014 8:50 PM

_Final piece of the puzzle incoming, one of the toughest. Waiting for the train from Budapest to Belgrade at the moment. Two pigeons are fighting for a piece of food a few feet away. I got oddly reminded of you and Mrs. Hudson bickering about that baking show a while back._

_That's more of a you and Mycroft thing to do, don't you think? :)_

_Sod right off, John._

15-03-2014 6:35 PM

_In Serbia, on dangerous waters. I might not be able to text you for a while, but don't worry about me. It's only a death mission._

_Glad you haven't lost your sense of humour entirely. Stay safe._

* * * * *

That April was miserably cold and wet. Not a day went by without a colourful display of umbrellas on the streets of London. John watched two raindrops slide down the bus window, rooting for the slower one to catch up, and win. Life had been incredibly slow in the past two years. Though, with his regular messages, it felt like Sherlock never left, he was always disappointed not to find him in their living room, experimenting, composing or dragging him with him the moment he entered to investigate a case.

He missed him. Terribly. Read and re-read all their conversations, always expecting for something new to appear. But there were no messages in a month, since his flatmate arrived to Serbia. To be fair, he  _did_  warn him in his last text, but even so, the doctor's days felt lonelier and much longer than they'd ever been. And the last update he had received, from none other than Mycroft, concerned him to no extent. 

"I'm afraid I can't provide you with good news, John." he said without a greeting as soon as John had answered the call.

"Please, don't say he's-"

"He isn't." John sighed from relief. "But he's got himself in quite the trouble. I'm on my way there. If everything goes well, you'll see him again soon. But do be careful with him. I don't think I have to explain to you how war changes a man." And he hung up, leaving the other man no chance to speak.

It'd been two weeks since that conversation. Both Holmes brothers were completely silent, and while John understood how serious the situation was if Mycroft Holmes stood up from his desk for it, he couldn't help being impatient. Not giving him a sign was so much like them, but what if... what if they didn't signal because both of them had been buried six feet underground somewhere in the Serbian woodlands? He barely ate and barely slept in those two weeks, though Mrs. Hudson and Molly tried their best to convince him otherwise. And that rainy April day, he had been sent home from work several hours earlier, and told to "get some fucking rest" as he looked "like death warmed over".

The doctor sincerely wished he had brought an umbrella with him, as by the time he closed the front door behind himself, he'd been drenched to the bone and shivering. The door to their flat upstairs stood wide open, he noticed as he took his coat off. Had the landlady let herself in and cleaned up a bit? Wise decision, as John himself could not give less shits about the dust or the dishes at the moment.

His first steps led him immediately to the bathroom, to take a shower, then to his room to change. Only after that, on his way to the kitchen to grab a cuppa did he see that the flat was exactly in the messy state he'd left it in. Then... who was inside? And were they still in there with him? As he headed inside the so rarely used room, the answer became obvious as he glanced at the dinner table suspiciously. He took a step back.

 _Milk_. The whole thing was packed with milk cartons of various kinds, enough for a family of eight for a week. The sight was hilarious enough, and then came the note. A scrap of paper taped to one of the cartons, the message written with neat letters. 

_I have no idea why he wanted to get these and so many of them. He claims you told him something when he left. I guess I should thank you for unknowingly dragging my brother into a grocery store for once in his life. Nice job. MH_

John shook his head while the corners of his mouth pulled to a smile of disbelief. He remembered their last conversation well, but didn't think Sherlock would actually take his awkward joke seriously. Or that he'd ever see him again, for that matter. But every sign indicated that he was only moments away from it. He let out a chuckle. He should have known from the start. Last time he left that door open, Mycroft scared him half to death and Sherlock pulled a Jesus on him. 

Excitement made him feel like a child on Christmas Day. He still couldn't believe the detective was there, at home with him after two and a half years. Did he still look the same? Could he still think those wonderful ways he did before? 

With slow and careful steps, he approached Sherlock's room, the door ever-so-slightly open. The floorboards creaked when he stepped inside, but he kept going anyway.

The early afternoon found Sherlock Holmes asleep on his bed, pulled curtains making the room adequately dark. He looked so... peaceful, lying there. The sight was so rare, so sacred that John would have felt it a crime to disturb him. His blanket kicked to the end of the bed, the younger man slept with his shirt off, back turned towards the door, towards John. He was even thinner than before, if that was possible. And as he gradually came closer, he noticed them.

"My God..." he covered his mouth in horror, footsteps halting. He had to check twice if he saw it correctly. But even in the dim light seeping in through the barely open door, it was obvious. His friend's back was covered entirely in long scars reaching from his shoulder blades to his waist.

He remembered getting shot on the field, the bullet shattering his collarbone. Remembered waking up after the surgery, laying in his hospital bed, numb, not knowing what to do or where to go next. Still wanting to fight. He dreamt with that scene more times than he could count, more often again since the only one to stop them left him. But there he lied, back again, with scars of his own.

"Oh, Sherlock..." he whispered as he stepped closer, the hand that didn't tremble reaching out uncertainly to touch him. He pulled his fingers along the length of the markings, just barely, careful not to wake him from his well-deserved sleep. "Dear, what have they done to you?" he asked, trying to examine them despite the bad light conditions. He didn't have a hard job. Only a whip would leave those kind of scars. The oldest a month, the newest a week old at most. He assumed the fact that the majority of the scars had been treated well was Mycroft's doing.

He went through all that pain, suffering and agony just to dismantle a criminal web. And there was probably more Sherlock 'forgot' to mention in his texts not to worry him. The man, John concluded, was braver than some whom he'd met at his weapons training, who dropped out and ran along home after days. Maybe even braver than a few of his comrades. And he was the very man fate, taking the form of Mike Stamford, brought his way. He couldn't be more grateful. Even just his return was miraculous. "Still not a hero now, are you?" he asked with an absent-minded smile.

The detective started stirring in his sleep, and John pulled his hands away as if they had been burned. He wasn't sure how Sherlock would've liked to be handled in that situation, so the only solution seemed to be retreat before he even discovered John was in there with him. He stepped away from the bed, sighing, but just before he made it out the door, a raspy voice calling his name stopped him in his tracks. "John?"

He turned back, lips automatically pulling into a smile. "Hello, stranger." Sherlock reached for the discarded blanket in a hurry, hiding his bare torso from his flatmate's eyes. Though, quite frankly, John could've done without it. It was not a bad sight in the slightest.

"You're early."

"I got sent home as I look like shit." he grinned, and crouched down next to the man, who still looked confused to see him. "If it helps, I didn't expect you to be back either. Neither of you texted."

"Guess I wanted to build things on the element of surprise." he smiled, pale, tired eyes scanning John's face, crinkling up at the corners when he saw him laughing.

"Well, you sure as hell surprised me!" he shook his head with a grin, cupping Sherlock's cheeks softly. "But you don't need that thing on you. I was in the army, remember? I've seen worse." The younger man seemed surprised, but obliged. Luckily, John concluded as he glanced down, his chest was clear of any scars. 

"Mycroft nearly got sick to his stomach when he saw me" he admitted, and suddenly, the doctor understood why the elder Holmes was merely the puppeteer behind all action. "He came to Serbia, you know. Sometimes I entertain the possibility of him actually having a heart." He was so eager to tell his stories John didn't have it in him to stop him and say he was aware of it. He so rarely spoke of his brother anyway.

"Mycroft Holmes on field? You're kidding." he smiled, but Sherlock was unfazed.  _Why am I not surprised he sees right through me?_

"You knew." he concluded coldly, sitting up and staring his flatmate right in the eye.

"I... did, he rang me on his way there." John confessed with a sigh. But Sherlock didn't respond. He kept on looking and looking until he felt naked and exposed under his gaze. "Damn, I must _really_ look like shit."

"No, no, I just... I missed this." he muttered. "Missed... seeing you. Like, in the flesh, not just in dreams and hallucinations." He got so quiet John could barely understand him by the end. 

"You dreamt with me?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Nearly every night in the past years. Different locations and scenarios, but in each one, you were there, even if just for brief seconds. The only times I failed to see you were when I didn't dream at all..." The younger man's glance darted to the bedsheets to avoid John's eyes, and the doctor blinked into the darkness, still trying to process what he just heard. Since the time he left, he'd suspected what Sherlock could've felt towards him, and there was no use trying to hide he returned it... but nearly _every night?_

Before he knew, his arms were wrapped around the detective, careful not to touch his back. And as he laid his head on his shoulder, he thought about those weeks after Sherlock's 'death'. When he kept hallucinating him in random places, and talking to him as if he would come to life and magically respond. But dreaming was worse. Knowing it isn't real but desperately wanting it to be... that was John's presence to Sherlock. And from how tightly the man was holding on to him, he knew he got it right.

"Sherlock..." he said when they pulled apart. "I could use some sleep, and frankly, so could you. Would you mind if I stayed instead of going upstairs?" There was something worrying, yet flattering in how fast Sherlock told him to stay. 

* * * * *

John woke with a start. It wasn't yet morning, else some light would've seeped through the curtains. He wondered for a second what could've woken him, and when he heard the whimpers from the other side of the bed, everything became clear. Sherlock tossed and turned, distress written on his face, and the doctor had no idea how to help him. Whenever he had a nightmare, he'd wake to the same song being played on the violin every single time. (Another thing Sherlock figured out probably by deduction. John kept a list at that point and it wasn't exactly short.) Nothing good could've possibly come out of it if John tried the same method. But there had to be something to soothe him.

Next time the detective turned towards him, he took a hold of his hands, balled into fists and shaking. Having no better idea, he rubbed circles into the backs of them with his thumb to see if that would work. As he held them, his fingers felt scars left by what he guessed was handcuffs. He wondered how many more there were that he didn't know about.

When Sherlock's breathing started to even out, he brought a hand up to his hair, twirling his locks around his finger and letting go. He got so lost in the game he didn't notice two pale and very awake eyes watching him. 

"Oh," he said when his gaze met Sherlock's. He untangled his fingers out of embarrassment of getting caught in the act. "Feeling any better?" he asked softly, only to be met with silence. The intelligent, observant eyes staring into his own were tearful, and yet he didn't try to wipe them away. "C'mere" he whispered to him, and the younger man didn't hesitate for a second to cuddle close, burying his face into John's chest, long, thin arms thrown around his torso sleepily.

As he rested his chin on top of Sherlock's head, he couldn't help but be reminded of their goodbye, and the reluctance the detective tried so hard to mask. It was alike the incident in Baskerville, when it looked like it physically pained him to admit he was afraid of something. There was no hiding anything tonight. He experienced it himself, with his newfound distrustfulness and shorter temper, war changes a man in ways he had never expected to change. Yet there they both were. Fucked up, but with somebody equally fucked up by their side who understood. Who cared. Who, John dared to hope, loved and was loved in return.

"I'm glad you stayed" Sherlock muttered half-asleep into his shirt a little while later.

"Never going anywhere."

* * * * *

By next morning, the other half of the bed was empty and John's pulse raced at an alarming speed. He was gone. Perhaps he wasn't ever there. But, no, it was too realistic. The scars, Sherlock's nightmare, falling asleep with him in his arms and finally getting a night of undisturbed rest... he couldn't have dreamt all of it. Or could he? 

He headed out into the living room, heart beating in his throat as he looked around to find him. His head immediately turned towards the kitchen when he heard the kettle going off. Sherlock stood with his back turned towards him, and the doctor found himself sighing from relief, a smile on his face. 

"Good morning, John." he greeted him as he took the teacups out of the cupboard. "Tea?"

"You know how." he responded, hoping the detective didn't delete the information over the years. "First, it's Sherlock Holmes in a grocery store, now in the kitchen... I could get used to this." John admitted with a smile. "Would it be ridiculous of me to ask you to clean up after yourself once in a fortnight?" he went on.

"A little, considering you never do it either." Sherlock fired his response as he poured the water into the cups. The older man hid his face in his hand, lips pulling into a wide grin. _He's back to default_ , he noted mentally. It was time for a proper counter-attack.

"I still can't imagine it. You going shopping, I mean. Rolled up to Asda with your brother's car? Or did you take the helicopter?" Sherlock finally turned around to that, confusion in his eyes, disheveled curls hanging into his face. John felt a strong and sudden urge to pull him into his arms again. But he couldn't keep doing that all the time. Sherlock surely wouldn't let him. 

The detective took a long stride closer. "London air traffic is horrendous this time of the year. I definitely don't recommend it. Plus people give you those weirded-out looks in the parking lot... We've got to stick with cabs." he smirked, going along with the game.

"Damn it!" John snapped his fingers with a frown, earning a short laugh from Sherlock. "You know," he grinned to himself, "I wish I was there, and could've seen your reactions. I can only imagine what your brother had to go through. 'The fuck is that there? Why the fuck does it cost so much? People who actually buy this are stupid. Everyone is an idiot who's not me.'" he deepened his voice as he tried to imitate the younger man, much to his dismay.

"I don't speak like that." he crossed his arms, John following suit as he stepped forward.

"It was Saturday yesterday. How did you two survive the queue? 'Oi, mate, hurry up, your wife is fucking the postman at home deduced by the contents of your cart!'" he went on with his teasing as Sherlock rolled his eyes. But before he could shoot another remark at him, the detective shortened the distance between them to the minimum. He regarded him with one of those intense glares of his that practically hypnotised John on any normal day. That morning, the older man gave a cocky stare right back, leaning a little closer for the dramatic effect. But also just because he could. "Not good?" he asked.

"A bit not good, yeah." Sherlock responded in a low voice, nearly just a growl.

That was it, John thought while licking his lips. That was the moment where he either ran or went with what he was aching to do. Have been for years and never did. If he stopped, he wouldn't have to put a friendship at risk. There would be no pain, no rejection, no pushing away. Just another one of those missed chances never spoken about again. He could live with that. He was about to step back, and get started on reading the morning paper on the coffee table. Then he remembered.  _Nearly. Every. Night._

John took his chances, and closed the distance between them with a soft press of lips. His arms snaked around the taller man's waist, trying to pull him closer and back into reality at the same time. He yearned for a response. Any reaction would've done it. But in a world of ordinary humans, he chose a marble statue to kiss. John felt the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth as he pulled away, arms letting go slowly. He misinterpreted it all along. There was nothing romantic behind his actions. Of course not. The man was Sherlock Holmes, he felt no such thing as love towards anyone but his own intellect.

John's eyes, which were previously staring at the floor, followed Sherlock's hand as it slowly moved upwards, long, thin fingers touching the slightly parted lips he had kissed mere seconds ago. It was almost like... disbelief? The older man lifted his gaze to the pale eyes, shining, practically sparkling in the morning sunlight. The cold, unfeeling statue came to life before him, and radiated hope. The beginning of something new, right there and then. The hand he'd been watching moved to cup his face, the other hand along with it. "Thank you" he said softly, voice no louder than a whisper. 

The passion in the next kiss was so sudden John forgot where or who he was for a split second. But, God, did it matter? Lips, tongues, teeth crashed as both men regained their previous confidence. The doctor held on to Sherlock's shoulders, fingers clutching hard, and pulled him close, closer, until their foreheads touched. Somewhere deep down, he was afraid he'd disappear if he let go for even just one second.

John completely lost track of time. Next thing he knew, he was tugging the detective by his bathrobe towards the armchairs. Sherlock was surprisingly submissive, and surprisingly eager to be kissed or touched. Had he never had any romantic partners before? With the ways he acted around people, it was entirely possible.

They ended up in John's armchair, tangled into one another. In the heat of the moment, the older man forgot entirely about his paramour's injuries as he pushed him into the back of the chair. Sherlock hissed into their manyeth kiss, and John pulled away immediately, panting for air. "God, I'm sorry. I got carried away."

"So did I." the reply came immediately. For several, long-seeming seconds, they sat there, looking into each other's eyes, while John tried to figure out what to say to him. What do people normally say to the man they've loved for nearly five years now?

At last, he resorted to: "Seen anything similar in your dreams?"

"Often" Sherlock smiled. "None of them as good as this." There was a blissful silence between them. For once, nothing left unsaid, held back, nothing hidden. As their swollen lips reunited in a slower, more intimate kiss, the world seemed to have stopped turning, the moment creating them a perfect little infinity of their own. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The way the started. The way they were always meant to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I took so long with this, lovelies! I worked every free minute I had to give you the most beautiful ending I could. Here they are, my boys, going out with their quiet little explosion. Enjoy, and see you in something new sometime soon ~ xx


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